


Lost In Translation

by CallToMuster



Series: CallToMuster's Bland and Unusual Phil Coulson AU's! [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Epic Friendship, Gen, Phil is Russian in this fic, Russian Phil Coulson, i don't really know why, it just sort of happened, Русский | Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6008989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallToMuster/pseuds/CallToMuster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson loves America. He loves all of its unique melting pot culture, its strange food, its interesting people, its fascinating sports teams, its complex and contradictory language, its Captain, all of it. However, Russia will always hold a special place in Phil’s heart. It is, after all, his native country.</p><p>{A Russian!Phil Coulson AU.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost In Translation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stepantrofimovic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/gifts).



> Hey stepantrofimovic, thanks for being awesome and discussing language in the world with me. Also, for being extremely brave and speaking in your not-native language. I know how hard that is. You are the greatest. :)
> 
> -
> 
> Okay, so this is my Russian AU, though I guess that's obvious. I really like this 'verse, so if anyone has any prompts/requests/ideas, I'd LOVE to hear them!
> 
> On with the show!
> 
> (Oh, one more thing. I used Google Translate for the Russian, so if anyone takes offense by my mutilation of their language, I apologize. I'd love if anyone could help me polish it up!)

**-Melinda May-**

Melinda May has always known that Phil Coulson isn’t natively American. She first met him in the Academy, back when he was still going by his Russian name.

 Junior Agent May was going through her normal series of stretches when the hand-to-hand instructor approached her, a young man about her age with pale brown hair and a kind face following the woman.

 “May, this is Pavel Kornev. He just transferred here from the Moscow Academy, I want you to show him the ropes.” Agent Runnicks exclaimed.

 May wasn’t one to go against simple, unreasonable orders like that, and she especially wasn’t one to be rude, so she straightened out of her stretch and nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” Pavel smiled at her hesitantly.

 “Hello, nice to meet you. You are?” A heavy Russian accent coated his words like molasses, distorting the vowels and consonants. Kornev stuck out his hand for her to shake.

 “Melinda May.” She grasped his hand and shook it. Pavel had a firm grip, but not firm like he was trying to show how strong he was, or assert his dominance. Just firm. Melinda decided then and there that they would be friends. She showed Pavel around the Academy and they became friends. His English was as good as his combat skills, which was to say excellent on all accounts. He still had that accent though, and idioms weren’t his strong suit. Pavel would often take them literally.

  _“Just bite the bullet!” May snapped at her partner, who was hesitating in trying out an experimental weapon the R &D department just came up with. Pavel gave her a weird look - then dropped the magazine and picked up one of the bullets, holding it in between his forefinger and thumb. He slowly brought it closer to his face, then stopped._

_“I… Why would I bite it?” He sounded so confused._

_Melinda gave him a look of fond exasperation. “It’s an idiom, Pavel. It just means, ‘do it quickly and get it over with.’ “_

For all that he loved America though, Pavel did miss Mother Russia, as he sometimes referred to it. So for his birthday one year, July 8th, May took him to a hole-in-the-wall Russian restaurant. She didn’t tell him where they were going. It was worth it to see the delight on his face when they were faced with the menu all in Cyrillic. That night they gorged themselves on blini and vodka, and also some lesser known Russian dishes like pelmeni (“Like leetle dumplings, Meleenda! You vill love it!”) and okroshka (Eet’s, um, basically cold soup. But really tasty, I promise!”)

Walking back to Melinda’s car, Pavel looked at her with gratitude shining in his eyes. “Zhank you, Meleenda.”

She smiled at the way he said her name. “You’re welcome, Pavel.”

Eventually, Pavel’s accent became a problem for his undercover field work, and he could either lose it or become an analyst. Not one to give up the adrenaline and action of missions, Pavel worked for weeks to learn how to speak like an American. Melinda helped him a lot, and the gradual changes were immediately evident when she took him to a nearby mall and made him talk to people. No one figured out he was Russian. Pavel took great delight in revealing that fact.

  
Pavel came up to Melinda one day and told her, “Call me Phil now. Phil Coulson. Pavel Kornev is my Russian name.” May was not one to deny the man such a basic right to choose his own name, so she did as he asked; she called him Phil. It took some getting used to, but she eventually stopped slipping up. Although sometimes, when she really needs to get his attention, Melinda May calls Phil Coulson “Pavel”. And he answers.

 

  **-Grant Ward-**

 

Grant Ward knew six languages: English, Spanish, French, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, and Arabic. He was proud of this, though he tried not to show it. It was no easy feat. To keep up his fluency, Grant often read books in the language he was focusing on. Because of this, books in Spanish, French, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, and Arabic were often strewn across the Bus. Skye took great delight in this fact, though Grant couldn’t tell why. The hacker had a weird sense of humor. Some of the other members of the team took an interest to them occasionally - mostly May, as she spoke Mandarin. So Grant was used to seeing other people reading his books. Still, it was a surprise to find Agent Coulson reading Ward’s copy of Евге́ний Оне́гин. 

“Sir?” Ward’s shock bled through into his tone, much as he tried to hide it. He knew the senior agent spoke Spanish, but Russian was new.

Coulson looked slightly sheepish. “Apologies, Agent Ward. I came across your copy and I couldn’t help myself. Евге́ний Оне́гин is one of my favorite books.”

Grant blinked. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian, sir?” He meant it to be a statement, but it came out more like a question.

Coulson smiled wryly. “Well, it is my native language.” He stood and went upstairs to his office, presumably to file paperwork or something of the sort, leaving Grant’s jaw on the floor and his mind racing. Agent Coulson was American, right? He seemed American. As far as Ward could tell, he _was_ American. So how then, was his native language Russian? His mind still pondering that question, Grant retreated to his quarters. There was a simple explanation: Agent Coulson was Russian, or Belarusian, or from Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, or Tajikistan, where Russian was spoken prominently. Again, this made the most sense. At the same time though, it didn’t.

Agent Coulson had no detectable accent besides American. He was also a master spy. Having no accent means nothing when talking about an agent of Coulson’s caliber.

His file says he is American. But files can be faked. Or maybe Grant just doesn’t have high enough clearance to know that information.

  
All in all, Agent Coulson has given no indication that he’s _not_ American. That is, besides his first language being Russian. Maybe there’s some Russian community in the US, like Chinatown or Little Italy or something? Ward’s head started hurting as he thought about this, and it was almost time for them to land, so he tabled the thought and got ready to deplane.

 

**- **Полина** **Ильясов-****

 

Полина Ильясовa, or Polina Ilyasova, was born in Volgograd, Russia and she spent most of her life there. Her parents, recognizing that English was becoming the language of the future, placed her in classes starting when she was very young. As such, she was fluent in the language, though she did have an accent. In 2007, she joined SHIELD and over time became a Level 4 SHIELD agent. She was proud of this fact - she had worked hard to get where she was. There were only two more levels to go. As a Level 4 agent, she didn’t have a primary handler, but there was a commanding agent in charge of her and the other similarly ranked agents on a mission. Polina had never met Agent Coulson, but she’d heard some things. He was strict but fair, stern yet caring, an utter badass while he looked like an accountant. He was Fury’s one good eye.

So when she received her mission details to see “AGENT P. COULSON” at the top, Polina didn’t really know what to expect. An average looking man with a slightly balding head and kind eyes was not it. Nevertheless, that was what greeted her when she opened the door to the mission briefing room.

“Good afternoon, Agent Ilyanova. I’m Agent Coulson, please take a seat and we’ll begin shortly.” The man said, the corners of his mouth crinkling in slight amusement. Polina’s face must’ve looked a little surprised, and she was. It was rare for someone to get her name right on the first try, and rarer still for them to say it with a good accent. _Interesting._ Polina wasn’t the last one there, but she wasn’t the first either, so she sat down in an empty chair and waited. It didn’t take long for Agents Thomson and Briggs to show up. Coulson cleared his throat.

“Alright, let’s get started. This mission has been assigned the code AQ52T-9926. It takes place in Moscow, Russia.” A spike of adrenaline went through Polina. Russia! Any day she got to go back to her home country was a good day, no matter what she was doing there. “The expected length is from....” The agent went over the details confidently. One could tell he knew what he was doing. “...Then, after Agent Ilyanova and I have safely evacuated the facility with the documents, this mission is over and we’ll leave. Evacuation point is-” he listed off an address. “where a SHIELD helicopter will be waiting to take us to the nearest private airport. From there we’ll take a Quinjet back to the Helicarrier. Any questions?”

Agent Grung, a Level 3, raised his hand and spoke. “Yes, sir. Is the Russian government aware of our mission?”

Agent Coulson frowned. “Considering that the man who owns the facility we’re stealing from and then burning works for them, no, I don’t think we want to let them know in advance. Anything else?” No one said anything. “Then please take the next couple of hours to familiarize yourself with the briefing packet I handed out today. I’ll see you in six hours.” With that, he left the room.

Six hours later, Polina was standing ready by the entrance to the airfield, dressed in an evening gown she got from Costuming. Agent Coulson was there as well, in a sharp-looking dress suit. The others were crowded around him in their tactical gear, quietly talking amongst themselves. All fell silent when Coulson began to speak.

“Everyone here?” A beat. No one said anything. “Good. Let’s get going.” Coulson led the group to the waiting Quinjet. The ride to Moscow was long and filled with preparations for the mission ahead. Agent Coulson, acting this mission as the Field Agent In Charge, made the rounds to each agent under him, making sure everyone understood their part. Polina was going in with Agent Coulson, and it was their job to mingle at the charity fundraiser Vladimir Morozov was holding in his mansion. Morozov had some files SHIELD wanted out of the Russian government’s hands, and while they were distracting him, a small tactical team would infiltrate his rooms and find the files. When they gave the signal that they found what they were looking for, Polina and Coulson would make their excuses and leave.

Nothing was said on the subject, but Polina was under the impression that she would be Coulson’s interpreter for the evening. The man didn’t know Russian as far as Polina knew, and even if he did his accent probably wouldn’t be that great.

So she was surprised when, opening her mouth at the charity function to begin talking, Agent Coulson began speaking fluent Russian with a Moscow accent.

“Добрый вечер. Меня зовут Павел Корнев. приятно познакомиться.” _Good evening. My name is Pavel Kornev. Pleasure to meet you._ The comms, previously littered with background conversations as people confirmed and questioned their orders, fell silent.

“и удовольствие встретиться с вами. ты?” _And a pleasure to meet you. You are?_ The man turned to Polina, who was still so startled she could barely remember her alias.

“Наталья Дрёмовa, сэр.” _Natalia Dryomova, sir._ Introductions out of the way, the man quickly lost interest in the pair of them and moved on to the buffet table.

Polina turned to Agent Coulson incredulously. “Sir, you didn’t tell me you spoke Russian!” She spoke quietly but urgently.

He shrugged. “It’s not something I advertise.” With that, Agent Coulson joined the fray again, conversing easily. Polina followed him in a sort of daze, and they mingled in the crowd. Finally, they worked their way up to Vladimir Morozov himself.

“какой прекрасный партия. Спасибо за приглашение.” _What a lovely party. Thank you for the invitation._ Agent Coulson spoke fluidly. A strange expression crossed the man’s face when he saw the pair of them, but it passed so quickly Polina thought she might’ve imagined it.

“Надеюсь, ты наслаждаешься.” _I hope you’re enjoying yourself._ Morozov barely gave them the chance to reply before he spoke again. “Существует что-то я хочу показать в спину. Подписывайтесь на меня?” _There is something I’d like to show you in the back. Follow me?_ His bodyguards walked up to Polina and Coulson. She felt the cold muzzle of a gun through her dress. A spike of adrenaline flashed through her. Quickly though, it was replaced with fear. Someone was holding a gun to her.

The SHIELD agents glanced at each other. Polina hoped she conveyed her panic. Agent Coulson gave her a measured, reading look, then turned back to Morozov and nodded.

Many things happened after that, in quick succession. The pair was led into the back rooms. Needles were plunged into their bloodstreams; bags thrown over their heads. Fog dominated Polina’s mind, and she succumbed to it.

When Polina woke up, it was to find herself in a cage. There was a low rumbling that thrummed throughout the space. She’d been on enough SHIELD transports to recognize the sound as being jet engines. So she was on a plane. Polina felt her mind slipping again. She did not fight it.

The next time Polina jerked awake, she was no longer on a plane but in a cell. Agent Coulson was chained up on the wall next to her, shackles and handcuffs around his legs and wrists, same as Polina.

“С тобой все в порядке?” _Are you alright?_ Russian, Polina’s brain helpfully supplied. Why Russian? Nevertheless, Polina answered.

“Я думаю так.” _I think so._

The answer to Polina’s unspoken question was supplied when the voices accompanying the footsteps approaching from the hall were speaking English. In an American accent. Several things clicked together for Polina at that moment. They’d been taken by Americans (or at the very least, people who spoke English in American accents) who probably assumed to the two of them couldn’t speak or understand any English. Polina would bet that Agent Coulson had something to do with that. The man was a legend. They had been abducted for two likely reasons. Either they’d been recognized as SHIELD agents, or because they were posing as rich guests at a Russian charity function, it was assumed that they had money and were taken for that reason. The first one was less likely but more dangerous.

Thankfully, it seemed to be the latter. As soon as the two men stepped into the room, Agent Coulson began speaking in Russian, his tone fast and urgent. “У нас есть деньги. Мы можем заплатить вам все, что вы хотите, просто пойдем.” _We have money. We can pay you whatever you want, just let us go._ He was playing up the rich Russian front, it seemed.

That worked for Polina. She whipped up some tears and began wailing, “Пожалуйста! Пожалуйста, пойдем!” _Please! Please, let us go!_ The two men understood none of it. They stood there like deer in headlights, unsure of what to do when confronted like this.

“Umm…” said the first one, whom Polina had started calling “медвежонок” _little bear_ in her head. He was a short, scowly fellow. At the moment however, he just looked confused. “I’m gonna go get Joe.”

“Yeah,” said the other one, (“ребенок человек” _baby-man_ , on account of the fact that he had such a boyish face) latched onto the idea like he was drowning and it was a flotation device. “I’ll go with you.”

Agent Coulson looked at Polina and gave her a small smile, so small she thought she might’ve imagined it. They were in this together now.

A few minutes later, “Joe” showed up with Little Bear and Baby-Man. His face looked like a bulldog; his arms as thick as hams. He was wearing a white wifebeater that had his name on it. All in all, not a very threatening looking guy. Joe went up to Coulson and began yelling in his face. Joe’s voice, however, was very high-pitched. The sight was comical. An large, angry man yelling at another man. Coulson had his face in a placating, scared setting, but his eyes were full of mirth.

It was comically easy to escape.

Years later, Agent Coulson took Polina out for a drink to celebrate her Level 6 promotion. They drank vodka and spoke only Russian the whole night. It was fantastic - Coulson, over the years, had turned into the father she never had. Polina cried when she heard the news that he’d died after the Battle of New York. She’d genuinely grown to care about the older man.

That’s why, after her earning of Level 7, she went over to the Bus and gave him a piece of her mind.

It was a SHIELD-owned airfield; the Bus was presumably stopping there to fuel up. Polina honestly didn’t care why it was there. All she cared about was finding Coulson, yelling at him, punching him, then giving him a big hug. Preferably in that order. She stomped across the tarmac, black SHIELD-issued combat boots clacking against the hard concrete, until she reached the Bus.

The cargo ramp was down. That made Polina’s job easier, she just walked up. There were two sciency-looking people in a lab, looking into microscopes. They didn’t notice her, so she didn’t feel particularly inclined to announce her presence. She saw Lola, and her heart ached. Phil loved Lola. Then Polina shook her head mentally. Phil was alive now. Where was he? She went up the stairs twice. There Coulson was, in his office.

“Привет! Коулсон!” _Hey! Coulson!_ Polina shouted. Phil’s head snapped up immediately. His face brightened at the sight of her.

“Полина!” _Polina!_ His smile faded as he saw Polina’s face. She was mad and not afraid to show it. Coulson stood up.

“Ты тупой, эгоистичны, старик.” _You stupid, selfish, old man._ Polina growled. Phil winced slightly. Polina heard footsteps behind her. She didn’t care who they were.

“Полина, извините, вы не могли знать. Никто не мог знать.” _Polina, I’m sorry, you couldn’t know. No one could know._ He attempted to placate her.

“По-видимому, все на этом самолете мог знать.” _Apparently, everyone on this plane could know._

Phil nodded. “Точка.” _Point._

Polina walked forward and punched him square in the cheekbone. Coulson didn’t move, not even to touch his face. He just stood there and took it. Then, Polina wrapped her arms around him and gave Phil a hug.

“Прости, Полина.” _I’m sorry, Polina._

“Я знаю.” _I know._

And so she forgave him ** **.** **

 

**-Nick Fury-**

 

Nick Fury has also always known that Phil Coulson is Pavel Kornev. He was the one who recruited the man, after all. Nick only speaks a little Russian, so Phil has an excuse to laugh at him when they go out drinking. Phil conforms to stereotypes then - vodka is the only thing he’ll drink, and he won’t let anyone else touch it. That might be due to the fact that Nick once, early on in their friendship, replaced Phil’s glass with some Bud Light. The face he made when he took a sip was priceless, as was the storm of swear words, both Russian and otherwise.

  
Occasionally, when Phil hadn’t taken a vacation in a couple years (sadly, this happened often), Nick would send him on a low-key surveillance mission to Russia. Something that wasn’t dangerous and didn’t take a lot of energy. Phil always came back looking refreshed and relaxed. It's good for him.

 

**-Clint Barton-**

 

Not killing Natasha Romanoff almost killed Clint’s career, and by association, Phil’s. Clint risked everything to save her, but it was Coulson who stepped up to the plate. He went to bat for the two of them, and Clint knew there were repercussions. He felt bad.

Good things did come from that union, though. STRIKE Team Delta was formed; the greatest one of it’s kind. There was Clint, master marksman who never missed. Natasha, literal super spy. And Phil, genius tactician and strategist, pulling the strings behind the scenes as their handler.

A couple months after Natasha’s “recruitment”, something changed between the other two members. Things became easy between them, familiar. They’d share knowing looks when talking about Clint. A lot of the time, Natasha and Phil’d just talk, which was more annoying. Because they didn’t speak in English - nope, they had to talk in Russian. Clint didn’t really know the story there, but he didn’t want to ask. Natasha would probably put one of her many, many knives against his throat. Clint liked his throat and the blood inside it. He’d prefer it stay that way. So Clint didn’t pry. That didn’t mean he wasn’t curious though.

Given the circumstances in which Clint found out why, he’d really prefer he didn’t.

STRIKE Team Delta had been assigned a black-ops mission in Vietnam. Black-ops meant no backup, just the three of them in the field. They’d need their own exit strategy and it would never be on record. Black-ops were always dangerous.

This mission, Clint, Phil, and Natasha would be in Hanoi. More precisely, Tay Ho, the expat district. Foreigners had been going missing and then showing up in slavery rings. It was STRIKE Team Delta’s job to shut it down. So they posed as tourists to get themselves captured.

“Clint, pass me my suitcase,” Natasha ordered, sweat already sticking the hair framing her face to her forehead. Clint complied, of course. Phil was paying the taxi driver, tipping him for a job well done.

“Cảm ơn anh.” He rejoined them, and together they stared tiredly at the hotel. Most American tourists would be extremely jetlagged at this point. The three of them weren’t that far off, so they stumbled into the lobby and got their rooms. In case anyone was paying close attention, they’d leave the “DO NOT DISTURB” signs on and pretend to be sleeping. It was about 12 hours ahead in Hanoi than STRIKE Team Delta was used to, but they dutifully planned for the mission ahead. The next day, they got to act like tourists. They bought non las in the Old Quarter and ate phở by the Temple of Literature. That night Clint, Phil, and Natasha saw a water puppet show in the French Quarter. Throughout their time out, they made sure to act act vulnerable. Slavers tended to go for that thing. (What does it say about Clint and SHIELD that he knew what slavers look for in potential slaves? Anyway…) It was a great, full day. So was the following one.

The next, however, was not.

Their taxi driver didn’t take them to the Dong Xuan Market as requested. No, instead the SHIELD agents were treated to a dark warehouse awhile out of the city and wallops to the head. When Clint awoke an unknown number of hours later, Natasha was stroking his hair. Phil was nowhere to be seen. Immediately, a spike of panic jolted through him.

“Where’s Phil?” Clint croaked. Natasha’s eyes darkened.

“They tried to take you. Phil wouldn’t let them. They took him instead.” Her short, clipped sentences betrayed her worry. But Clint and Natasha wouldn’t be waiting long. Just then, two of their captors appeared in front of the cell, dragging a motionless Phil between them. The door was opened and Coulson was tossed in unceremoniously. Immediately, the two rushed to his side. The left side of Phil’s head and face was sticky with blood from a gash near his temple. It appeared these slavers weren’t too concerned with keeping them alive and (reasonably) healthy for customers. That was never good.

Phil groaned as he hit the floor. Clint let out some of the tension. He was alive, at least. Natasha propped Phil up against the wall and tapped his face. “Phil.”

No response.

“Phil.” She tried again. This time, his eyes fluttered open, then immediately shut again as the light hit them. Clint moved to block most of the bulb above them.

“Фил, откройте глаза.” _Phil, open your eyes._ Natasha snapped. Phil obeyed instinctively.

“что случилось?” _What happened?_ Clint couldn’t tell if his voice really was really raspy or if that was just the Russian.

“Английский, Фил. Клинт нужно услышать, как хорошо.” _English, Phil. Clint needs to hear as well._ Natasha gestured to to Clint, who was kneeling next to her, not understanding a word.

“Хорошо. Клинт, отчет о ситуации?” _Okay. Clint, situation report?_ Phil’s blue eyes focused on Clint.

“Английский!” _English!_ Natasha barked.

“Я говорю по английски!” _I am speaking English!_ Phil sounded irritated. Natasha’s eyes widened.

“дерьмо.” _Shit._ Clint recognized that word. Natasha turned to him.

“He must’ve hit his head harder than we originally thought.”

“What, why?” Clint was confused.

“Because he can’t speak English.” Natasha’s words were calm and measured, yet there was a trace of steel underlying them. This statement did nothing to clear up Clint’s confusion. In fact, it exacerbated it.

“What do you mean, he can’t speak English?! It’s his native language!”

“No, it’s not, Clint! Just like it isn’t mine!” Natasha hissed at Clint. He knew that Natasha’s native language wasn’t English; he also knew that she had native-level fluency in eleven languages. Phil? Well, as far as Clint knew, Phil spoke Spanish, German, Russian, Swedish, French, and enough to get by in seven other languages.

“I lost you somewhere.” Yeah, Clint really wasn’t sure what was going on.

Natasha rolled her eyes exasperatedly. “Clint, Phil’s Russian like me.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He’s really not.”

“He really is.”

“Nuh-” Clint began childishly, before Natasha cut him off.

“No, Clint. I’m right and you’re wrong, as usual.” Clint started to protest, but Natasha shoved her hand over his mouth and continued. “ _Listen to me_.”

Natasha rarely ever used that tone of voice with him, so Clint shut up. (Not that he could say much with her hand over his lips.)

“Phil is Russian. He has above native-level fluency in English like I do, but it seems that with his concussion he can’t distinguish between the two. Now, we’re going to have to see if his condition improves within the next twenty four hours. If not, we’ll escape this dump and go back to HQ. Another STRIKE Team can do this mission.”

Clint nodded, eyes wide. All this time, he’d assumed that Phil spoke Russian to Natasha for a couple of reasons:to comfort Natasha, and to improve his grasp on her language Never had he imagined that the reason was because it was _theirs_. Clint was totally going to have a freakout about this later, but he shoved the thoughts into a deep dark corner of his mind that held things like Barney and turned back to the issue at hand.

It all worked out in the end. As Phil’s concussion improved, so did his command of the English language. STRIKE Team Delta completed their mission, and Clint was invited to the drinking party Phi and Natasha had set up.

They were safe. Everything was going to be okay.

 

**-Natasha Romanoff-**

 

Natasha Romanoff is the anglicized version of Natalia Romanova, which in the Cyrillic alphabet is Наталья Романова. She was born in Russia and from birth had been trained by them to be the perfect little soldier. Natasha was taught many things - languages, accents, fighting, shooting, seduction, espionage, willpower. Survival. She was conditioned to obey her masters’ every whims.

At 17, she murdered her best friend and roommate in a deathmatch to see who would become the Black Widow. Something cracked inside Natasha when she looked into the eyes of Аня. The most cracked things, the break grew and grew slowly over time, until six years later, she broke her conditioning and metaphorical shackles and ran loose. Natasha Romanoff became an assassin for hire, although occasionally she’d do her own work free of charge. Mostly child molesters and other such scum.

That’s how she ended up in Budapest.

Budapest was a doorway for Natasha, simultaneously an ending and a beginning. Budapest was the salty sweat on the back of her neck and the aroma of spiced meats the street vendors were selling. It was the sharp pain of a gunshot wound and the hot gush of blood seeping out of it. It was adrenaline pumping through your veins and the pounding of her feet against the ground. It was acceptance and forgiveness and welcomeness. In Natasha’s admittedly slightly warped mind, Budapest represented everything whole and pure in the world. 

It was where she met Clint.

Clinton Francis Barton was an ex-carnie, mercenary, and current SHIELD agent. She knew all about him. So she knew he was there to kill her. Natasha was not surprised at that fact. Hawkeye was a great sniper, probably _the_ best, and she’d been on SHIELD’s radar for quite some time. What surprised her was two things: (1.) she was ready to die, and (2.) Clint wasn’t ready to let her do that. Clint saw something that day in Hungary that made him pause with his finger on the trigger and his handler’s voice in his ear telling him to take the shot. Clint saved her from herself and that was a debt Natasha could never repay but would never stop trying to.

It was where she met Phil.

Clint was easy, he wore his bleeding heart on his sleeve. Phil was not. He kept himself locked up, cloaked in mystery and false leads. It’d taken quite a long time for him to open up to Natasha, but that made it all the more satisfying when he did. Natasha was sitting in Coulson’s office late one night. Clint was asleep on the couch; Natasha had taken over one of the chairs.

“Наталья?” _Natalya?_ Coulson’s eyes looked away from his computer to stare at hers. It was the first time he called her by first name and not ‘Romanoff’ or ‘Specialist’ or ‘Agent’.

“да?” _Yes?_ Natasha’s mouth switched to Russian before her brain could catch up.

“Вы знаете, что здесь в безопасности, не так ли? _You know you’re safe here, right?_ The look Phil was giving her was kind and knowing. It pierced her layers of bravado and stared into her soul. “что мы не повредит вам или заставить вас делать то, вы не хотите, чтобы?” _That we won’t hurt you or make you do things you don’t want to?_

Natasha stilled. She took slow, measured breaths. “да.” _Yes._

Coulson nodded. That was all he wanted to say. “хорошо.” _Good._

 

**-Jemma Simmons-**

 

Jemma Simmons is British through and through, and she loves her country more than one might expect. There’s a little mini Union Jack in her quarters, right next to her box of PG Tips and scale model of the TARDIS. Jemma lived in the United Kingdom until she was 17 when, armed with her two PhD’s, she enlisted in SHIELD Academy. There she met people from all over the world - literally. For example, her roommate was Indian. It was a rich and rewarding experience, and she is so glad she enrolled. It was, after all, how she met Fitz. That silly Scottish man is her best friend.

And then, right out of the Academy, she was picked up by Agent Coulson. There were all sorts of rumours about the man in the SHIELD grapevine. Most of them were in the past tense - his very continued existence was classified, and didn’t that tell you a lot about the man and his level within the hierarchy! The things she heard were very interesting. “Agent Coulson is a robot.” one rumour stated. “Agent Coulson never sleeps.” went another. “Agent Coulson once took out ten armed assassins with a pack of gummy bears.” said a third. ‘Agent Coulson did ______ with ______ seemed to be a recurring theme, probably because of the video proof one of them had. It was remarkable what the man could do with a bag of flour.

None of the rumours mentioned anything about Agent Coulson being from somewhere other than America though, possibly because it was a known fact he loved anything Captain America. Jemma thought about this as they drove back to the Bus from the Mojave Desert where Coulson was being held and tortured by Raina and Centipede. Her team leader was sitting next to her in the back of the van. She was giving him as thorough a checkup as she could given her situation, and she didn’t like what she was finding.

He had an erratic pulse, most probably from the cattle prod they were using on him. The electric burns all over his body was evident of that. There were various cuts and bruises on his face and if Jemma had to guess she’d say they were elsewhere as well. Coulson seemed fatigued, but that was normal for a man who had just been through what he had. He probably hadn’t slept in those three days, not trusting his surroundings at all. And these things were all not good, but the most worrying to Dr. Simmons at the moment was Agent Coulson’s cognitive functions - that is, how much his brain was affected by the machine that Raina had him strapped into.

Because he was having trouble speaking. To be more specific, he was having trouble speaking English. Half the mumbled words that came out of his mouth were in another language, one she didn’t know. Jemma, Ward, May, and Coulson were in the van together, while Skye and Fitz took the stolen sports car back. Ward seemed to understand _what_ he was saying, and May seemed to understand _why_ , so she was glad she was with them. It was hard to attempt to treat a patient when they can’t properly communicate what was wrong. Jemma still didn’t know why the agent was acting like this, and the Dr. Simmons in her really, really wanted to find out.

So, she asked him. “Agent Coulson,” Jemma said gingerly. “Why are you speaking another language?”

“Ask May.” came the low, slightly slurred response from the pale man next to her. Ward’s eyes never left the road to drift to May like Jemma’s did, but she could tell he was as interested as her. They waited for May’s response. When it did come, it was brief.

“He’s Russian.”

Jemma laughed. “I’m sorry Agent May, could you say that again? I thought you just said he was Russian. That’s absurd!” May turned around in her seat to give Jemma a withering look. “Oh. He really is Russian.” She paused, then went on. “Wait, that makes no sense. How could he be Russian? His file says he’s American, and he certainly doesn’t have an accent.”

May stared straight in front of her at the wide desert. She stayed silent for a few seconds, then finally spoke. “I was his partner in the Academy. His name was Pavel back then, and he still had his accent. He eventually changed his name and file to Phil Coulson, and erased every evidence that he’s not American.” She twisted back around in her seat to glare and Jemma. “Don’t tell anyone that. No one, not even Fitz.”

Jemma gulped and nodded. She glanced at Agent Coulson, who seemed to be having trouble focusing on things at the moment. His pupils kept dilating. Not a good sign.

When they eventually made it back to the Bus, the first thing May did was kick Agent Hand and her cronies out. Well, she did it in the “I’m Melinda May and if you don’t do as I say right now I’ll kick your ass” way. It got the job done - they were off the aeroplane in only a couple minutes. With that out of the way Dr. Simmons turned back to her patient.

Agent Coulson moved to leave the lab that they were now in and said, “Спасибо. я буду в моем офисе, если вы нуждаетесь во мне.” _Thank you. I’ll be in my office if you need me._ Of course, Jemma had no idea what it was that came out of his mouth. Ward however, did.

“сэр, я не думаю что это хорошая идея.” _Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea._

At Ward’s words, Coulson turned around, seeming reluctant. Eventually, he exclaimed,

“хорошо.” _Fine._ Then he pivoted towards Jemma and said a little stutteringly, “Simmons, I… I’d appreciate some, uh, medical care.” There was a faint wisp of an accent to his words. Simmons was fascinated. The cognitive ability to understand and speak languages rests in the cerebrum, and the neural pathways that must have been disrupted or rerouted in Agent Coulson’s brain must’ve -

“Simmons!” May snapped, and Jemma realized she’d been speaking out loud. She could feel the blush spreading across her face. 

“Right, of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is the longest thing I've written; I never thought I'd get this far.
> 
> Again, I'd love ideas or prompts for this 'verse!


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